


Frozen

by Elektra Pendragon (elekdragon)



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Episode Related, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hand Jobs, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:57:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6929590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elekdragon/pseuds/Elektra%20Pendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene from season 1, episode 1, "Days Gone By." Set right after they shower at the sheriff's department.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frozen

**Author's Note:**

> Morgan/Rick is one of my favorite pairings, but it's always so hard to write because Morgan loves his wife so much. This was sort of my way of reconciling that with wanting to put them together.

Frozen in place. It was a good description of the past weeks--stuck in an endless repeat, trapped in that house with the ghost of his wife haunting them nightly. Frozen, like he'd been when she'd stopped breathing. Frozen, every time her broken corpse wandered across the porch, pressed against the door, called for her family in a dry, desperate moan.

"Plan to move on?"

Morgan breathed in, pushing back the tears that still threatened to fall. Move on? He had no idea how. He distracted himself, tugging the borrowed shirt over his hands, working it up his arms. "Haven't worked up to it yet." He ducked his head, pulling the shirt down over his chest. 

Duane was in the other room, a disjointed tune filling the moist air as he got dressed. Morgan rocked forward to stand, but he swayed as Rick's hand reached out, catching his arm. His pale fingers were warm from the shower, strong as they pressed into his skin and held him back. Those eerie blue eyes pierced into him, making his heart trip. 

"You will, Morgan. You will."

That voice, so sure, so confident. Rick Grimes knew nothing about him, but he seemed so sure, like a child daring him to believe. Like Duane, when he just knew Santa was real. Like Jenny, telling him they'd be together forever.

Quick salty-warmth spilled down his cheek, so fast he couldn't stop it. His breath choked and died in his throat, a gasping hitch. Rick reached out with his other hand, twisting on the bench so that he was all Morgan could see, this bleached ghost of a figure with splashes of dark color, burned into a blur behind the sheen of water in his eyes. 

Warm, rough fingers caught his cheek, rasping away the tears with calloused care. His other hand squeezed Morgan's shoulder, rubbing the skin beneath the fabric in soothing circles. He wanted to give in, give in to the despair and pain and fear. Just stop being strong, just give in. 

Just give up.

Morgan jerked back, drawing his strength around him, fighting the need to let go, but Rick's grip was strong, sure. The man bent around him, covering his gaze with shadow, skin like fire as he was tugged close, salt-rough cheek to smooth. Morgan jerked again, sucking in a trembling breath, trying to escape, but he was caught. 

Frozen. 

Lips against his cheek, moving softly, huffing into his skin. "Hey, let me."

And he wanted to laugh at that, at Rick, at them. At himself, most of all, as he tucked his face into Rick's neck, letting himself be held. He was a man, a father, strong, responsible. He took care of his family. He was a good man. 

A good man who watched his wife die.

He sucked back the screams that wanted to escape, trapping them in his lungs as he clung to Rick's back. Gotta stay quiet, don't make a sound, hush, hush. 

"Shh," Rick hissed, pulling back to frame Morgan's face in his palms. He pressed his forehead to Morgan's, holding him still as he breathed over his mouth. "Shh." 

It would be so easy to just give in. Let go. Rough, chapped lips brushed against his own, pushing cool air into his mouth, coaxing. It was so easy to just lean in, gasping, stealing living breath before it changed, shifted into something long gone. 

"Let me," Rick whispered as he broke away, his hand dropped down, touching lightly at his knee. Morgan nodded, forehead to forehead, and that hand moved, slid, gripped his thigh. Higher. Another nod. Higher still, under the loose towel and finally that dry, warm, calloused grip closed around him, squeezed. Little places caught his delicate skin, scratched even as his body flushed with need. His cheeks burned, inside and out, with blood and salt and heat as Rick rubbed against him, nuzzling even as his hand tugged and twisted. 

Dark curls and pale-pink skin, and it wasn't familiar, wasn't anything he could believe that might be his Jenny, but he kept his eyes open, fighting that last little bit telling him to give in completely. His mouth was moving, words completely lost as he captured Rick's lips and licked and sucked and pushed into that heat, tasting the strangeness of the other man as the distant pleasure built, crashing in upon him like the waves of the dead that had taken his wife, his world, his life.

Morgan hissed and whined into Rick's mouth as he spilled over the man's hand, shuddering at the unwanted relief sapped his strength, his fear, his guilt, slipping a horrible peace over a corner of his soul. It was momentary, nothing he could allow himself to enjoy before everything pulled back, leaving him bared and ugly like a beach before a tsunami.

Rick caught him, held him, waited until he could put himself back together, tattered remains pulled tight over an empty, walking husk. This time, when he pulled away, Rick let him--warm, rough hands falling away as he busied himself shaking out the clothes, getting his breathing under control, ignoring the strange taste that clung to his tongue. When he felt... Not normal, but somewhere near steady--when he could, he turned to see Rick finishing buttoning his uniform, looking strangely young, unruffled. Ernest. 

Innocent.

Morgan met his alien eyes, pushing back the guilt that threatened to overwhelm him. It wasn't time for that. Never time for that. 

Duane's voice floated back into the room, bits of some song tumbling into new words, the beat rising and falling as he moved around in that other space. 

"Um," Rick started, then cleared his throat. "I can give you some weapons. Some ammo. When you're ready." 

Morgan nodded, breathing through his nose as he rubbed his arm. He could still feel those rough fingers digging into his skin, right over the tattoo of his wife. 

'Don't say sorry,' he thought to himself, over and over. 'Don't ever be sorry. Don't. Just. Don't.' 

"Okay," he said, finally, focusing on Duane's voice as he followed Rick out of the room.


End file.
